Driftwood
by purrfect
Summary: A mysterious Night Elf has lost more than her memory.
1. Lost

I am sitting quietly in the little thatched hut by the shore, a scroll lying open and forgotten across my legs, my slender, long-fingered hands still, almost waiting, in my lap. There are sounds beyond the split wooden frame; timeless sounds of ocean and rock and the endless wash of sand into the sea. It seems an effort I do not wish to make to hear them, even to use them to mark the time between what I can not, will not, remember and the reality of my life here in this little hut by the endless water.

I have not had a companion within the little hut since I woke, screaming and sick, on the rough rope hammock in the corner of the room some days, weeks or might it be months now? I know, in a vague, disconnected sort of way, that there are people somewhere and in some place that might wish they knew where I was, that might love me, might miss me.

When I do not know who **I** am, how can I be expected to know who **they** are?

Caring for them is a thought soon forgotten as the unread scroll tumbles to the floor among the other detritus I have found in the five heavy bags laying by the door. Are these things, the little treasures I have found and discarded in their depths, even mine or some other weary traveler, some other person who belongs to this world? Four of the packs, fashioned of buttery-soft leather with a thick, beautiful amethyst lining, carry a curious embroidery within, a word in darkest green thread: _Keelyn_. It does not seem like that would be my name and the thought has my hands fluttering into my lap like the birds I sometimes see wheeling outside of my window, cawing to the sky their pain and dreams and hope.

At the thought of the birds I lift my eyes to the window. Two glowing eyes, the color of the pretty thread in the bags, stare back at me from a whiskered, almost perplexed, muzzle. It is the cat, large enough to ride, that stalks among the marsh grasses, her white coat with its zigzagging black marks no longer gleaming as part of me believes it should but a matted, muddied mess. She is waiting patiently for me to remember her name, to remember why she would stay so close to a cabin far from where she should be hunting, with a woman who looks at her with blank eyes the color of starshine. She is waiting for the person who loves her, the someone I can not bring myself to remember.

I rise jerkily to my feet, my limbs stiff and sore from holding the same position for most of the day, the long, simple white dress that I have not bothered to wash sticking to the thin sheen of sweat that coats my pale purple skin. I straighten it almost absently, the faded, unnecessary little black velvet bow below my breasts hopelessly crushed by my carelessness. I know it is not my usual way with clothes, or at least not the way of the person who owns the bags at the door and the armor that languishes in a corner. The stitched leather breastplate is well-oiled and strikingly yellow, the long leather robe sinuous and beautiful where it should look ridiculous, all garishly green and purple.

I wonder idly sometimes why a person would need two different chest-pieces.

The pants are simple, more leather, more shine and careful stitching, the gloves tougher but tended carefully, for while they had formed to my hands like a second skin, they had slid on like a dream, soft and rich and warm. I had scrabbled to take them off in a sort of rage. Even the strange, clawed bracers were well cared for and oddly beautiful. It is the staff, though, that always manages to stir my senses, to change the tang of the hot, salty sea air of **now** into the foreign and dear and **then** scent of grass and dirt and love, if love had a scent, dark and mysterious and somehow calm under a slick coating of chaos.

I carefully avoid the magical weapon now, as much as I can in such a tiny, untidy space, skirting its needs as I ignore the gnawing ache in my belly that tells me I have forgotten to eat again. The large, sea-green shard at the staff's tip sparkles dangerously in the weakening afternoon light, the runes along its slick, wooden shaft winking at me, an almost malevolent reminder that I often forget to eat, often forget to bathe, often forget to use the lovely ivory brush with the soft bristles on the thick, straight, heavy tangle of aquamarine hair that spills down over my slender back.

As I turn back to the window, to the patiently watching eyes of the beautiful animal who regards me silently in return, I wrap my thin arms around my thin body and wonder, for not the first or last time in this lonely, desolate place of exile on the seashore, if there are sins I have committed, people I have wronged, reasons I have been left anchorless among a shifting, ever-changing, ever-painful sea of my own despair. The cat mrowls, softly, plaintively, lifting her heavy, sandy front paws to the windowsill and I start, my full, pouting mouth forming a word that has no sound:

_Adore_.

From the distant, disappointed look the cat gives me, the way her ears slick back even as she drops her paws from the windowsill, trailing seaweed and sand, it is not hers. It belongs, then, to me.

I do not know what it means.

As I have for so many days and nights in this hollow, empty space that is more inside of me than without, I sink down to the floor among the scattered pieces of someone else's life, my slender, long-fingered hands still, almost waiting, in my lap.

My sins must be vast, that I have been waiting so long.


	2. Companion

The sand is hot between my toes, warmed by the blazing heat of the late afternoon sun, the tide looming higher and closer with each wave as I stand, staring out over the vastness of the sea. To combat the heat, I have stripped to the bare essentials: the torn, dirty white dress has been transformed into a makeshift sarong, tied clumsily but well at my right shoulder with that silly velvet bow. My reed-slender body, criss-crossed by odd, thin scars pale with age, is bare beneath it, hoping to catch a breeze that is not laden with the taste of water.

The huge, sleek white cat with the jagged black stripes sits patiently near my legs, not leaning but not so far that her coat does not tickle my flesh. She seems content to simply watch with me. Occasionally she will purr, low and soft, tipping her fearsome muzzle skyward to drink from the wind. It is at these times that I drop my right hand and lay it gently upon her cool black nose, mingling my scent with the salt of sea and sand, assuring her that I am still here, that if I cannot remember all of the past, I do feel the present and know she is here because she loves me. That she stays because she knows I should love her.

I glance down at her face, turned away from both the sea and me now as she tracks the progress of a long-legged bird down the beach. I know that if she were not looking away, if she were thinking of more than her nearly empty belly, there would be a fearsome intelligence in her eyes, a waiting that still begs more from me than I know how to give. That I have taken the time and effort to begin marking the days of our exile in the soft wood of the little shack, that this is the third day I have stood here, on the shore with her by my side, that I have remembered her name, are not enough. Something in the way she watches me, patiently and without judgment, makes me only yearn more for the memories and the life she knows.

The yearning makes me sick with shame and need and a hunger that has little to do with food.

Suddenly, with a quick movement and in complete silence, she streaks away from me across the sand, her ears slicked back, eyes narrowed. She is stalking. I have seen her do it countless times now, as she finds food for both herself and me, but each time is a separate thrill, a new bond to draw me closer to the past. I turn my body more fully toward her and the bird, balancing most of my weight on my right leg in a hip-shot stance that feels natural, flicking the heavy fall of my hair over my shoulder in a move that is comfortable, practiced. Before I can take the sudden revelation and examine it more closely for paths of memory, another sly movement from the cat sends my thoughts scattering.

Not five feet from the bird, who is patently unaware of her presence as it drops its long, slender bill to the sand, the cat drops her belly and muzzle, using her flexible spine to hold the pose for long, breathless moments. When she moves, it is carefully, deliberately, a slinking forward of paws and muscle. As she lifts herself higher, poised to strike, something fiery and painful rolls through my blood, roaring into my head, stiffening my limbs.

For the third day in a row, standing along the rolling shore, I feel the dark presence I do not recognize attempt to rule me. Its roar sounds like the cat who is even now devouring the hapless bird and feels like memory. I am terrified.

Is this why I have been forsaken?

My lips compress to keep in the cry but I feel it, feel it screaming into the back of my throat, lifting in pitch and volume as my body twists, contorting, attempting to fight, to keep what little of myself I have come to know and recognize. Claws rake through my belly from the inside, a demand to give in, to open myself to this Thing, this Other that is me and not me, real and not real, power and pain and pleasure and the endlessness of Dreaming.

The sand is rough against my palms and my knees, scraping my sensitive skin, a distant, fleeting pain as I fall, scrabbling for purchase in a world that has gone red with blood. My fingers curl into the hot sand, a wave of salty seawater buffeting me as my eyes squeeze shut over the agony and the distant thrill of ecstasy. I can feel the Other winning, feel my hands and legs and body and even my mind slipping into another form, another shape, another way of being, merging with what is mine to make another. I let out a growling sort of gasp and briefly, blessedly, find relief in the darkness of unconsciousness.

It is the wet rasp of a tongue and the gentle nudge of a whiskered muzzle that awakens me. With thoughts only of easing my discomfort, my flesh and bone and sinew aching, I reach out to stretch, only to pause in the act of arching my long, sinuous, flexible spine to stare, stupidly, at the large, heavy black paws that were once my hands. Very, very carefully, as if I might shatter at any moment, I probe the edges of my consciousness and find…me. I am still me, still whole, still here, but different; a Beast prowls along the corridors of my mind, poking its whiskered muzzle into corners, massaging with its padding paws the broken cobbles of my memory. A word, already remembered but not understood, finds roots and flowers, a starburst in my mind.

_Adore._

Druid.

I am Druid. I am forest and brook and tree and sky and the soft crunch of detritus under my paws. I am wind and water and earth and fire, elemental and primal. I am healer and succor, breath and life. I am Beast and She is me.

I lift my muzzle to find the cat watching me with those kind, patient, waiting eyes. Opening the maw of sharp teeth that is the mouth of the nightsaber as it is the mouth of me, I roar, startling birds into the sky. The roar is her name, is understanding and joy and hope.

_Fala'Andu_.

Companion.

I am not alone.


	3. Memory

Memory returns in trickles and with more false starts than truth. In the thirty risings of the moon that I have been aware that I am Beast and woman, Druid and companion, I have recalled only a handful of words that seem as if they hold meaning for me. It is as if I have forgotten the language of my life, for I have words for birds and animals and even for the sea, but who I am remains elusive, just out of my reach.

Fala is infinitely patient with me. My first attempts at tracking, hunting and surviving in my shadowcat form were clumsy, inept and dismal failures. Like a mother cat with her recalcitrant, slow runt of a kitten, Fala has helped me discover the things I could do, the abilities I had forgotten, and the ways I could kill.

I have discovered the taste of blood on my tongue, hot and sweet and slick, and wonder if it has always been a balm to my scattered senses. Perhaps it is this revelry in someone else's pain that has cast me adrift. Perhaps I have devoured all that I knew and all that I love and Fala is all that is left

I am afraid of this answer and the truth I think it carries.

Among the snakes and lizards that seek warmth and refuge in the sand of the desert and the beach but burrow beneath for warmth in the cool night, Fala has led me, step by careful step, to a small, quiet village by the sea. There are only a handful of humanoids here and most are goblins, skinny, green and obnoxious, with sneering smiles and oily manners. Perhaps I am biased, though, as they are quick to shoo away the prowling black cat but anxious to serve the lithe, quiet woman in the garish leather robe. That they have nothing I might wish to buy and that I am uninterested in performing their errands seems to bother them little; that I will sit upon their sun-bleached, decaying wooden dock for hours at a time and simply stare out over a quiet sea lit by the cool moon unnerves them to the point that they have started to ask questions.

Would that I did not fear those answers even more than I do not knowing them.

I am sitting on the dock now, my long, sand-caked legs curled carefully beneath me. I was wondering idly what happens to my clothing when I shift into one of the cats or the bear, but something has caught my attention. Turning, I lift one slender, long-fingered hand to shield my eyes from the stinging, whirling sand and look back at the sleepy little village, eyes on the winking evening torches but my mind consumed, suddenly, with those handsome, sturdy bags lying dusty in the corner of my hut.

Do I dare? Am I brave enough, strong enough, Kaldorei enough to open those bags and remember?

My slender spin stiffens, my hands pressing over my heart s my tongue tastes the word, rolling it around. "Kaldorei. I am…I am Kaldorei."

There is a rush of memory, a torrent that feels like cool water and hot desire, the whisper of gentle hands on my skin, firm words, harsh accusations, a flash of green scales and ageless eyes, a raging battle, a sharp, endless stab of pain…and silence. I do not know what I have just witnessed. I do not know these sensations or their meaning but I know they are tied to my past.

I come to my feet in a lithe, graceful glide, smoothing down my leather robe absently as I call softly into the evening air,

"Fala'Andu. I have need of you."

She condenses at my side, her white and black stripes glowing in the darkness, her movements more like smoke than effort, her eyes remaining as calm and patient as ever. There is something about her, though, an excitement, a hopefulness, that has me pausing in the act of shifting. Instead, I reach out and run my hand over the arch of her spine. She purrs, a long, rumbling sound of approval, her front paws reaching forward, her back bowing low.

I am suddenly sitting on her back, her stride long and loping as she sets off toward the hut by the shore that we share. The cooler wind of the desert under the stars whips past my face and I tilt my lush, violet mouth back, drinking from it. It is exhilarating and humbling to feel her power and joy. She is what she was meant to be. I must have as much courage as she has shown.

Of all of the gear and detritus in the cabin of the life I have forgotten, I shall start with the staff. It is the most frightening to me.

Fala roars her approval, her stride lengthening, bringing me closer to more pieces of the past.


	4. Denial

While the beautifully carved and runed wooden shaft and glowing, green crystal tips of the staff called to mind battles fought and won, a Monastery of beauty and madness, the soothing touch of my healing magic, even the glimpse of friendly faces, the staff is not what has forced me out of the cabin and into the large, sprawling, dusty and rough city of Gadgetzan, neutral to Horde and Alliance alike but fueled by the greed of the goblins. Instead, it is a small, leather-bound book, carefully tended but enchanted in some way I cannot decipher that has given me both my name, Alorien Na'Shal, and my first real clue. While some of the pages are filled with a neat, precise hand and well-drawn, beautifully detailed maps, the rest is a garbled, jumbled mess, with the ink flowing strangely across the page, skittering just as my mind begins to grasp its meaning. One of the maps, however, I actually recognize. Its corresponding clue is why I find myself among the denizens of the goblin oasis in the desert of Tanaris.

_"I have recently returned from Zul'Farrak. It is a sad place, full of bitterness and anger. Luck coupled with some skill on the part of my companions is the only thing that managed to keep us alive. My healing was nearly inadequate to the needs of our group; it is lucky that the human mage Ellaren brought along the paladin, Lussonaturae. I am not fond of paladins on the whole, for their belief in the Light most often means they have an almost arrogant disregard for all but themselves. Perhaps it is his affection for her that kept him on task or perhaps his advanced training; whatever the case, for not the first time but always with some surprise I find myself grateful for the assistance of others. What little I managed to rescue from that place where the Trolls are misusing Nature is safely ensconced in my bank vault in Gadgetzan."_

Is this stilted language, this need to defend my abilities really me? Do I carry such arrogance in my heart, that I must judge others? I am appalled and slightly nauseated by these revelations. The words in the journal feel foreign to me, as Common still feels foreign to me. The goblin in the bank, however, doesn't seem to care how many times I struggle to relay my request to access my vault, even though the bank's motto of "Time is Money, Friend" is printed in neat block letters over the door. When I am finally able to communicate my needs, shown to the sparsely furnished little room and my things are brought to me, I understand his lack of hurry; I have paid dearly for the protection of the myriad bags, boxes and treasures that nearly overwhelm the space.

There are beautiful and terrible glass vials filled with liquids of all the hues of life and death, clutches of fresh herbs, somehow preserved and still fragrant, glittering dusts and oddly-shaped shards, some with a sort of malevolent beauty that says their purpose is not particularly benign, a ring of matte onyx that I find I can not force onto my finger, but that appears to be the perfect size… There are labels here but many of them, too, are like the journal: enchanted so that no one might decipher their secrets.

I do not know the enchantment. I do not know how to correct it, if it needs to be corrected. How, then, I wonder, looking about me rather helplessly at the piles of my past life, am I to learn whom Alorien Na'Shal is?

There is, surprisingly, a knock on the door. I know my voice shakes as I call, "Yes?"

"Excuse me, Druid, but there is someone here to see you. He is on the list of approved visitors to your vault. Can I let him in?"

Whoever it is does not wait for my answer. The little goblin is pushed firmly aside; he slams the door to show his displeasure. I don't even flinch, for I am arrested by the sight of the tall, thin Kaldorei male who has permission to access these secrets I have forgotten, his form shimmering oddly in and out of the light, his long, verdant hair both out of place here in the desert and a foil for his sharp-boned faced and arrogant starshine eyes. To my surprise, he comes directly to me, his long, lean hands curling over my shoulders, his height intimidating even to me. I cannot suppress the tremble that goes through me, the clenching of my belly a physical ache I am not pleased to feel.

"A simple note saying kiss my ass would have been more honest, Alorien, than running off to the desert." His voice is whiplash sharp, flaying along my already raw nerves, the little shake he gives me causing my teeth to clack together unpleasantly. When I have no answer, he shakes me again, harder now, the swirling energies around him pulsing in a most disturbing way. I step back, a hasty move that has me nearly tumbling backwards over a chair. A blankness enters his eyes, his expression hardening his handsome, terrifying face into smooth, pale, moon-kissed marble. An answering coldness sweeps through me and I shudder, closing my eyes on a harsh wave of helplessness.

"Please," I whisper, softly, in Darnassian, opening my eyes just soon enough to see him flinch. Wondering at it, I sink slowly down into the chair and clasp my trembling hands in my lap. Looking at some point just beyond his right shoulder, unable to sustain that cold, even stare, I murmur, "I do not know who you are."

When he makes a rude sound in his throat, the clench in my belly returns, intensifying an ache I don't understand and don't particularly want to feel. Even more disturbing, the Beast within me has started to stir, responding to his presence. Because I am slowly drowning in my own ignorance, my voice is cold with a slight edge of hysteria. "You can think what you like but I do not know you."

When he simply stares at me, his lip curled contemptuously, disbelief rampant in his expression, my hands flutter in my lap, making a sweeping gesture as my voice rises in pitch and volume. "Do you see all of these things? I do not know what they are. Do you see the book, open there on the table? I do not recognize half of the things inside."

When he turns sharply on his heel, his intent clearly to leave, I find I have risen from my chair, my body held so tightly that I feel might shatter. The Beast within me roars, clawing its way to the surface, and with eyes that I know have turned yellow, glowing with ferocity, I nearly growl, "Do you not understand? I don't know who I am!"

He stops. He turns. The blistering look of loathing he gives me makes both Beast and woman within me want to weep with pain. I reach out, pleading without meaning to; he only ignores me, his voice flat, devoid of expression. I am not prepared for what he has to say.

"No, I suppose you don't know who you are, do you, Druid? I told you that you must learn to make your own decisions, that you must never let others lead you, that blind faith was not the answer. In all of my lectures, in all of your questioning, it never once dawned on me that you might be looking for a way out, a reason to abandon everything and everyone who cared for you." He laughs, an angry, hoarse sound that is more about disillusionment than it is about amusement. I can feel my own mouth twist with pain, feel myself taking a hesitant step forward. When he backs away as if I might contaminate him, something inside of me withers and dies.

"Hopefully you will have finally taught me the lesson the Cenarion Circle tried so hard to instill within me so long ago: caring is not for me, whether given or received."

It is not until the door has closed quietly and firmly behind him that I realize I have sunk to the floor, my body rocking back and forth slowly, my fist stuffed against my mouth to stifle the keening cries that want to escape. Cruel barbs of memory have pierced my flesh, leaving me broken and bloody on the floor, triggered by the words of the shadow priest Concern Strongbough, who once called me lover.

I am Alorien Na'Shal. I was once Dúrithur, Daughter, chosen among the Druids of the Emerald Dream to guide and protect those of the Masque of Ysera. I had a family, a lover, friends, and a life. Their faces, their needs, their care for me are hot knives of pain in my belly.

Denials tremble on my tongue but there is no solace for me. I have not been forsaken. I have not been lost. Carefully and with painstakingly detailed research and planning, I did exactly what Concern has accused me of: I abandoned home and hearth and family and love for a life not of servitude but of freedom. I did not foresee the end of my plan, did not understand what I did when I severed my ties to Ysera.

"What have I done?" I whisper brokenly. "What have I done?"

There is no answer that will ever make sense.


End file.
